


Looked Forward Long

by dracofiend



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment(s) to which James has looked forward long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looked Forward Long

**Author's Note:**

> Vast and eternal thanks to witch9spring for Britpicking. ♥ This is meant to be a sequel to the middle bit of Word and Deed. I tried to write a sequel to that third part, but this ended up happening instead, heh.

"Sir."

James stands on bare feet at his own open door, looking entirely unsurprised at the materialization of his boss on his front step. He draws himself straight, and his face comes along with it, as if he's dressed in a cream-colored suit and a pale pink tie instead of tatty sweatpants and a thermal with a favored t-shirt on top (Isle of Wight, 2003).

Lewis nods. "Hathaway." His eyes dart past James to the living room beyond, and back, quickly. He shifts, and it's so unlike him that James' mind turns at once from what he first assumed (it's about a case; someone's called in a body) to what he has dreaded. It's remarkable, how long Lewis has held out. 

"Has something happened?" James asks, unwilling to concede the obvious until Lewis makes it obvious. "Should I get changed?"

Lewis gives James a look that says James should know better. "No, you're fine. Can I come in?"

James steps back, pulling the door wider. His face stays calm but he grips the handle tightly. So his fate is sealed. But then it had been, weeks ago, when James had taken it upon himself to reveal all by kissing DI Lewis on the mouth, in the most horrifically, incredibly, resoundingly deliberate manner imaginable. Lewis hadn't shoved him to the ground, and he hadn't said a word about it. Although, what would he say?

James carefully closes the door. He girds himself to find out.

"Please, sit down," James says, turning round with his best happy host voice. "Can I get you something? Coffee?" It's odd—James has been to Lewis' home so many times; he knows that kitchen as well as his own. Lewis, though, is exotic in this landscape of used books, scattered sheet music and faintly dusty Ikea furnishings. 

Lewis looks over from the framed wall hanging—James' degree—and shakes his head. "No thanks." He doesn't sit, either, which means James can't. His fingers itch for a cigarette. No, not a cigarette—for his Gibson sitting propped against the couch, where he'd left her when the doorbell had buzzed. Slung against his body, unbending in his hands—she would be his armour in this, James’ darkest hour of need. James breathes in through the nose and stands straight as he can, looking solemn rather than terrified, which is what he feels with every ounce of his soul. Nevertheless. He shall not flinch before the supreme trial. 

He waits while Lewis frowns slightly, tilts his head. Inhales as if he would speak, and then—"Would you—? Would you care to go for a walk, Sergeant?"

James is stiff with preparatory apology; he was hardly expecting this bizarre, Austen-ish request. His reply emerges after a moment, as fully unconvincing as Lewis' question. "I'd love to." He pauses. It sounds like sarcasm. "Excuse me. Need socks." It can't be helped.

James ducks away to his bedroom, hardly aware of the motion, and reaches automatically into the top drawer, plunging a hand into a jumble of neutrals and pastels. He pops back out, a folded-up pair squeezed in his hand. Lewis is still standing where James had left him. James drops to the sofa, and Lewis follows suit, and suddenly, they're just two blokes lounging on a couch. One of them is putting on a seafoam-green sock.

***

He's at Lewis' front door, squinting into the light of 7:30 am. He looks down at his tie, patting it straight, then up at the silent house across the street. They must be used to seeing him by now, the neighbours; used to seeing his Vauxhall Vectra parked on Lewis' front drive. How many times has he been here before? It’s just the same as always, but for the fear that he might, at any moment, do or say something ghastly. Mustn’t think. James consults his watch. 7:32. He bends down to retrieve the Oxford Mail from where it’s half-shoved through the letterbox and raps on the door.

"Coming!" sounds Lewis' voice, muffled. Footsteps, and then the door cracks and swings open.

"Morning, sir," says James, stepping over the threshold, handing off the paper. Lewis is in his shirt and tie, no socks.

"Thanks," he replies without looking up from the front page. James goes into the kitchen to get himself a coffee. The front door clicks shut in the hallway behind him. He fills a cup, adds sugar, and looks out the window, drinking it, listening to Lewis move about in the hall, the bedroom. He slips his Blackberry from his pocket and checks it, then goes to pour out the last of the coffee into Lewis' nearly-empty mug. Lewis returns just as James holds it out, and takes it, still skimming over the newspaper.

"Morning, James," Lewis says, flipping the paper over. James watches him finish off an article on the proposed Banbury development and set the paper down. Lewis sits at the table and looks at James expectantly.

"The girl who worked with David Tomlinson a few months ago is confirmed for an interview at 8:30, and the lab has results back on the blood and tissue samples," James reports.

"Mm, good," Lewis answers, drinking his coffee. "You take the interview, I'll talk to Laura. Did you get hold of Tomlinson’s brother yet?"

James shakes his head. "Nothing on record after he left Glasgow in 2009, but I have a call in to one of his mates from school who's been in touch as of six months ago; I should hear back from him today."

"Okay." Lewis nods, and pulls on socks. He's wedging a foot into a shoe when he asks, "By the way, are you up to anything tonight? Your music practice? Sorry, rehearsal?"

James lifts an eyebrow at the studied nonchalance of the inquiry. Lewis avoids his gaze, but adds in a tone that suggests he has anticipated James' expression, "Laura told me once that you lot practice by yourselves, but you rehearse together. Splitting hairs, I say."

James lowers his head. "We are, indeed, rehearsing tonight." He wonders vaguely where Lewis is taking this. Two mentions of Dr. Hobson, and it's barely gone 8. Perhaps it will be one of those days in which Lewis and the good doctor get chummy over the corpse. How thrilling.

"Are you," Lewis says. James waits—but Lewis just wriggles his heel into the other shoe.

"Did you need me to cancel, sir?"

Lewis looks up as if startled. "No, not at all. No, it's nothing like that." He stands and straightens his jacket. "I was only wondering--well, I've listened to your music and all, but I've never seen you actually—well. I suppose it's not the done thing to bring along unappreciative old sods who can’t tell the difference between madrigals and marching bands. Okay, let's go." He tilts his head toward the door. James can scarcely believe his ears, or the faint trace of discomfort on Lewis' face. He's left behind for a moment when Lewis disappears into the hall.

Quickly he catches up and follows Lewis out the door. "Someone with your discerning ear is always welcome at rehearsals. Eight o’clock all right? Grab a bite first?"

Lewis is just about to get inside the car. He taps the roof once, and nods. "Okay." Then he ducks down and vanishes from view.

James smiles across the top of the car at the concrete driveways on Lewis' street. He gets in and pulls the door to.

***

"So Giovanni di Bernardone, as he was then known, decided to turn from his life of pleasure and frivolity and devote himself instead to the pursuit of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and ultimately, of immortality through Christ." James' shoulders bow together automatically as they step from the pub into the biting air.

"Funny how those go together," Lewis replies, the words puffing white.

"All part of God's ineffable plan," James says. He curls his hands closed in his coat pockets against the invading chill.

"So I’ve heard," Lewis grunts. After a moment, he says, "Morse was that way."

“What, god-like?”

“No.” James can feel Lewis’ admonishing eyes on him. “Though maybe he thought so, sometimes. I meant he liked to keep everything shrouded in mystery for no good reason.”

“Ah.” James nods, once, smiling. “Unlike you.” He looks down as he walks, listening to Lewis' crunching steps beside him, just off-time with his own. 

“Yeah. Unlike me.” 

James lifts his head to see Lewis scrutinizing him. The last of James’ smile fades; he averts his eyes to watch two, three more clouds of his breath form and dissipate. 

"Are you headed home, sir?"

"Where else?" Lewis asks. James steels himself.  _Best get it done._  He launches.

"Well, I was thinking—we could both go back to mine. If you like," he adds, too quickly, to preempt the awkward silence that must, must come.

Lewis is silent, for a mercifully brief moment. "Oh." Crunch goes his step on an iced-over puddle. "That's. Very kind.” There's another awful pause. James finds his jaw is clenching and purposefully widens it, close-mouthed. He can do nothing about his heart, which beats ferociously, to exit.

Lewis' non-response stretches out further, and James is just about to brush off the (ill-timed, ill-mannered, what a stupid, wishful, bloody ridiculous thing to say) invitation with some agreeable rubbish about the lateness of the hour and perhaps some other time when Lewis says, "Okay. Fine."

James' head jerks up, straight ahead. His jaw tightens shut. "Great," he replies after a second, trying for casual, rather than bowled over by the heat and nerves suddenly rising through him like a groundswell. Under his coat and jacket and collared shirt and vest, James starts to sweat. "I'm fit to drive."

"Fine.”

When they arrive at the flat, James has regrouped, somewhat. The drive was short at this time of night, and quiet, which helped James think. He offers coffee, and a game of chess. It's an absurd plan, lunacy of the highest order, but then again, James is well aware that he embarked upon that vessel and sailed off long ago. He actually fumbles with the key, nearly drops it in the dark, whilst attempting to unlock the door.

Lewis sort of chuckles, which James takes as an encouraging sign. "All right, don't worry," Lewis says, coming in behind him as James flicks on the light. "I'm rubbish at chess."

It transpires that Lewis is not joking—James has never seen anyone with a poorer game, not even that time he volunteered at a local community club for disadvantaged youths. Lewis is actually worse than the disadvantaged youths.

"Told you I was rubbish, didn't I?" Lewis says, watching James take away his other rook.

"Indeed you did," James murmurs. To be fair, the youths probably had loads more practice, seeing as they weren't burdened by inexplicably frequent murders or cascades of paperwork.

He sits back, twisting Lewis' rook in his fingers, while Lewis drains his coffee mug and slumps his chin into his hands. "What have you done now, eh?" he sighs.

James lets his mouth cant slightly upward. "No idea. I'm making it up as I go along."

Lewis' forehead folds instantaneously into four horizontal creases. He doesn't look up when he mutters, "Bloody show-off."

Ten minutes later, Lewis' queen is in James' hand, and Lewis is shrugging with a resigned smile. "Well, thank you for that demonstration of the obvious. Just what an old copper needs, to be taken to pieces over a chessboard by his clever-clogs sergeant."

"You’re only rusty, I’m sure," James smiles back. He starts to reset the board. "A bit of practice is all it takes. I could give you lessons."

"Oh, that's the limit," Lewis growls, helping James replace the pieces. "Thanks but no thanks--I've managed to get by without sodding chess for this long. Anyway, it’s a game for nobs. Why is it, James, that you only know games for nobs?"

James smiles, and restores a bishop. “I believe it's more commonly referred to as the sport of kings.”

“Can’t it be both?” Lewis comments in answer, and James wonders: What the bloody hell is going on? Are they really going to sit here and drink coffee and play chess? What does Lewis want? For James to keep up with this apparently casual, business-as-usual, I’m-DI-Lewis-this-is-DS-Hathaway routine? It isn’t a façade but it’s not what James wants, not in isolation, but the look Lewis gave him when James—tried it on (sounds horrible, never think of it)—James couldn’t bear it. He won’t bear it again. 

"Everything okay?"

James breathes in quickly at the sound of Lewis' voice.

"Yeah," James answers, raising his head. "Want to play another?" The chessboard is perfect; each piece is in place.

"I know when I'm beaten, Hathaway," Lewis says, shaking his head and pushing himself from his seat. He consults his watch as James looks on, the cords in his chest winding and winding. "Oh, well—I'd best be getting along." Lewis puts his arm down and stands, turning to pick up his coat from where he had draped it. "We OAPs can’t take too much of a wild night out, mind."

James gives him a brief smile. “Weak tea and cribbage, next time.” He gets to his feet, his nerves stringing taut as he regains his height, as he moves toward Lewis.  _I’ll drop you home_  is his next line; it’s formed in his mind, resting on his tongue, but he stood up too quickly and his head feels loose. He’s leaning, dipping, his weight sways from foot to foot and then he’s before Lewis, whose blue and much-too-knowing eyes seem to watch him all the while. They watch and they watch, sober and clear, until James can’t see them watching, with his head bent to Lewis’, anymore. 

James moves his mouth, and Lewis moves too, and the movement startles James’ eyes open. For a flash of an instant he sees Lewis’ eyes closed, the soft folds of each eyelid in gentle relief. He sees what Lewis looks like, kissing. 

Lewis eyes spring open at the same moment he jerks back. There’s shock—then the vague beginnings of a smile.

“So it was no accident, before,” Lewis says, and it would sound jokey but for the gravel in his voice.

James can only stand with his hands and arms humming, shaking at his sides. He sees Lewis’ eyes flicker when he swallows the unaccountably large amount of saliva that has pooled around his tongue. 

“No accident,” James confirms. He bites his lip, and lunges. 

Lewis is solid; his stubble asserts itself beneath each of James’ thumbs where they dig into Lewis’ jaw. James can feel only the impossible crush of his heart against his chest, the impossible crush of his lips against Lewis. His lungs claim suffocation so he breathes deeply through his nose and it’s coffee, Lewis, the heat of his own exhaled breath out, glancing from Lewis’ cheek to his own. Lewis’ mouth opens; James can’t restrain himself—his chin, his mouth are scraped as he moves, they’ll be raw but James’ grip is certain, his palms are cupped to Lewis’ face on each side and he won’t let go, he kisses Lewis hard, too hard but he won’t let go—

“Jim!”

Lewis has broken free, and James is empty-handed. He stares back at Lewis. The skin at his mouth smarts, accusingly. James blinks, looks away, swallows. He can’t move. He must.

“Sorry,” he begins, hardly able to articulate—then Lewis returns the wide world to him with a swift hand. 

“No,” Lewis tells him, softly. James looks over; Lewis’ gaze catches him at once. “Don’t be.” His palm curves tightly to James’ right shoulder and holds him there. “Only…” Lewis’ voice hesitates but his fingers, in the seam of James’ pale pink shirt, do not. James is pulled an inch closer. “Let’s start with weak tea and cribbage, eh?”

James looks into Lewis’ familiar lined face. It’s beautiful. 

“Sure,” he replies, his eyes shifting back and forth between Lewis’. He smiles. Lewis smiles too, and slides his hand from James’ shoulder to pat the side of James’ face. James relinquishes a faint laugh, and takes up Lewis’ hand before it can draw away. With his eyes ever-fixed on Lewis, he kisses Lewis’ wrist, on the inside, and watches Lewis’ eyes widen.

*** 

They're in Lewis' bit of garden one Saturday evening--not much to speak of, a patch of grass given free reign by its master's benevolent neglect, a brittle, uneven green in the early days of winter. That, and a metalworked garden table with a couple of beers upon it and a couple of chairs crowded round it, which they are sitting in, is all there is. James looks over and finds Lewis staring at him, as if abruptly struck by something not altogether pleasant.

"What?"

Lewis blinks away. "Nothing."

James nudges his elbow. "What."

Lewis' jaw moves. James nudges him again—leans in, and doesn't lean back. " _What._  Sir."

Lewis expression turns reproving. "Nothing! Just. Your jumper. Hoodie. It makes you look like—"

"Don't say it," James warns. Lewis' eyes slide sideways at him; his mouth is downturned at the nearer edge. 

"You don't even know what I was going to say!" protests Lewis, surging slightly beneath James' pressing shoulder.

James wants to bend forward. In the light spared by the broken clouds above, Lewis’ cheekbones emerge. James leans close, apportioning the weight of his knowledge to Lewis' upper arm and shoulder, near enough to see the change in blues to grays beneath Lewis' eyes. James is sure he is right about this. He's so very sure.

His head lolls backward as his neck cranes to Lewis. Then James smiles a little, and pulls the hood up and over.

***

"Why do you even want this?” Lewis asks. “I’m not much to look at compared with your lady friends—the ones I’ve seen, anyway." They’re in Lewis’ living room, ostensibly watching  _Bizarre Crime_  on BBC3.

"My lady friends were all murderers or accomplices to murder, or got promoted and buggered off somewhere far away," James replies promptly from where he’s sprawled out on the couch, with his head on Lewis’ thigh. He lifts his eyes up to Lewis with an angelic smile. “You’re not, and you won’t be.”

"Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, mind," Lewis says dryly, from above. 

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know,” James quotes. It earns him a short smack on the head, and James laughs as the smiting hand of justice gentles in his hair. He glances up again, to see an abstracted expression settle on Lewis’ face.

“Sir?”

Lewis shakes his head. “I was just thinking.” His forehead creases slightly; the skin around his eyes pulls up. “You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever…” Lewis trails off, eyes searching.

“Snogged?”

Lewis’ expression darkens in the way it does when James is being smart. “Don’t be daft. I was going to say—you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

James smiles. “One in a million.” He pushes himself up on the couch, to rest his head more comfortably in the cradle of Lewis’ lap. 

“Aye, and a good job too,” Lewis murmurs. “World’s got enough trouble-makers running about as it is.”

James reaches up, unfurling an arm to reach about Lewis, and stretches his neck high, for the kiss.


End file.
